


uphill both ways

by pistolgrip



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Coming To Terms With The Fact That You May Have An Unfortunate Crush On The Leader Of The Eternals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 17:03:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14597622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: There are times where it's unfair for Six to be doubting Siete's motives to bring him on missions. This is most likely not one of those times.





	uphill both ways

**Author's Note:**

> _a thousand reasons_ was the final nail in the coffin for my determination to not admit i ship this  
>  "they were in the event for about two seconds" yeah. yeah.  
> 

It’s bad enough that Siete’s late for their meeting; Six has tapped a hole with his impatient claws into the wood of this poor table in the corner, and after the first bartender tried to talk to him, no one else had tried to approach him again.

But that’s just standard fare. It’s almost as if Siete loves to test the limits of Six’s dedication, and he’s slowly sorted his thoughts out on the matter: he’s got some modicum of loyalty to the concept of the Eternals, perhaps to Uno, but to Siete? No chance.

Yes—it’s bad enough that Siete’s late. It’s worse that instead of walking to the only table in the pub with a broody looking Erune, he’s walked straight to the bar and chatted up the bartender, taking his sweet time ordering two beers.

There’s no other word for it: Siete saunters up to the table Six is sitting at, all grins and feigned unawareness of the irritation seeping even through Six’s mask.

“Hey, Six. Got a job for you.”

Six eyes the two beers Siete’s brought over warily, watches as he places them on the table. They’re ridiculously close to the edge. There’s no way he’s not doing this on purpose. “I’m aware. In fact, that was the only thing you told me before setting this meeting. Is there a point to this?”

“Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t have called you out here. Obviously.”

Six resists the urge to punch the man out. Instead, he clenches his fists and exhales a steady breath, rattling through his mask. Siete clearly notices this, and instead of being concerned—like most people should be, a more childish part of him says—he laughs and pulls up the chair that’s sitting across the table, scraping it against the floor so it’s instead next to Six, and then he plops down in it.

“The table is small enough without you taking up the rest of my precious space.”

“Now, now, that’s no way to be,” Siete says. Six doesn’t give him the satisfaction of being annoyed this time, and it’s to his relief that Siete unfurls a map and takes the beers he’d ordered earlier to use as paperweights. “Anyways, there’s something weird going down on Silverwind Stretch. Seems like the unexpected heatwave across the skydom brought something nasty outta the cracks, at least around the edges.”

“My job?”

“Accompany me.” Siete points to the part of the map with a notable amount of elevation; a sizable mountain with a route mapped in ink towards what could possibly be a cave. Silverwind Stretch is sparsely populated to begin with; there haven’t been much incidents there that the Grandcypher hasn’t already accidentally stumbled onto and proceeded to fix themselves. Even then, things never lurk far beneath the surface, and Siete—despite acting the way he does—never does anything without purpose.

But just for the principle of it, for the familiarity, Six asks: “And there’s really no one else better for this than me?”

“I hear cats are good at scaling tall things.”

Siete leans back with a beer in hand at the same moment that Six swipes at him, and he takes a satisfied chug, eyes glittering over the edge of the glass as Six misses. He sighs. “That’s the stuff.”

“Everything about you disgusts me.”

“We’ll head off tomorrow at 1300.”

* * *

Despite his griping, a job is a job. And he’s still got a sense of duty to the name _Eternals_ , if not to the man who created it.

The heatwave across Phantagrande, according to Siete, has hit even the northernmost points to the coldest pole of the skydom. Six decides this was false; he’s never been to Silverwind Stretch, but it’s impossible that a place this cold could exist, especially if this was _warmer than usual_.

It’s not as though he’s _bad_ with cold temperatures, per se. It’s that he’s simply not used to them; he’s spent his time in more temperate climates for as long as he can remember. He feels as though he’s more susceptible to extreme weather than the other Eternals, and at the very least, he’s thankful his layers provide a barrier from the cold as well as from prying eyes. There’s no way Siete _doesn’t_ know this, either; it seems like the only point of this mission is to annoy him.

It’s with this thought in mind that he wraps the white cloak of the Eternals tighter around his body and, without even a cursory glance at the map Siete is pulling out, he begins to forge ahead through the snow.

Six knows the path, and he knows Siete knows the path. He doesn’t know why Siete keeps stopping, marking things on the map and on other scraps of paper when the scenery of blank white snow hasn’t changed the entire time they’ve been travelling, but he’s been told his only job is to accompany him. It seems more like a waste of time when a job like this could easily have been done by someone with, quite frankly, greater resistance to sub-optimal weather conditions, as well as someone with more patience for the man.

Even so, Siete rarely asks for him. There’s certainly more to the mission than he’s been told. With that in mind, and his patience running thin, he forges ahead in the snow, letting Siete continue his meandering path around the plotted course.

With nothing but the crunching of snow under his feet as company for a while, it’s a quiet trip. However, it doesn’t mean he has the room to zone out, and he’s grateful for that when he senses something hurtling towards their direction, whipping through the air and with all the purpose of an aimed sniper.

Quickly and quietly, Six readies his claws and whips around, slicing through the projectile, Siete’s name on the tip of his tongue to warn him—

He’s assaulted by a flurry of white. If he weren’t wearing a mask, Six would be sputtering on the snow that flies in his face. Frozen in his stance, he registers the projectile he’s cut in half is a snowball, that Siete’s gloves are covered in snow, and that he’s got a grin on his face that means nothing but trouble.

They say nothing. Siete is a patient man, but Six is stubborn, and under the guise of a stand-off, Six formulates a plan. His claws are curved at the end, and he’s still in a crouching stance; it’s not a stretch for him to crouch down further and use his claws like a catapult, volleying snow at the leader of the Eternals—

That’s ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous, and Six will _not_ fall for something as childish as this.

It’s what he tells himself, but something—a small movement, a huff of resignation— _something_ must have given him away, because Siete crouches down and makes a sweeping motion with his arm to launch more snow at Six, and all pretense of maturity flies out the window. Six rolls sideways to avoid the snow (which, incidentally, gets him covered in snow, but at least it’s not the snow _Siete_ threw) and he launches himself and a few clones into a standing position. Completely surrounding Siete, they reach into the snow with their claws and with all their might, they shoot the snow in the direction of Siete.

It looks almost like a centralized snowstorm around a space just a bit larger than a human male, and when the snow settles, Siete has snow clinging to every thread of his winter cloak, glittering off the dark armour underneath.

“Kitten’s got claws,” he chirps. Six sends another snowstorm his way, trapping Siete, and continues along the path.

* * *

Silverwind Stretch is quiet, an empty wasteland; they’ve only stopped by a collection of houses that barely passes as a town, and Siete enters one of the pubs, stationing Six outside to keep watch.

It’s ridiculous. He knows the man can handle himself well enough, they’ve sparred enough times for that to be obvious to anyone, especially Six. He sees one or two townspeople pass hurriedly between houses, not even sparing him another glance, and it’s with impatience that he thinks again that he has absolutely no reason to be here when the two of them are practically the only life on the island.

It’s only been about five minutes since Siete’s disappeared into the pub and back out, but it’s felt like an eternity. The wind is picking up, blowing the light snow off the ground just enough to lower visibility by a marginal amount. And still, Siete’s got a grin on his face and a mug in his hands, which he proceeds to unceremoniously shove in Six's direction.

It’s with good reflexes that the mug doesn’t immediately fall into the snow, with not a drop spilled. Siete whistles. “Nice save.”

Six scoffs. As if it’s anything out of the ordinary. “What is this?”

“Hot chocolate.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Consolation prize for not getting to listen to the top secret information I was just privy to. Now let’s get going.”

Siete walks on ahead this time, on a bit of a straighter path than before. Six follows behind, feeling the warmth of the mug traitorously seep into his palms. Carefully, he lifts it up to his mask and sniffs it, seeing if there’s anything about the nature of the hot chocolate that’s odd that he can pick up on. But as far as he can tell, it’s bona fide hot chocolate.

He’s not one for sweets, much like he’s not one for the cold. It might just be a matter of getting used to it, however; he lifts his mask just enough to expose his mouth, and it obscures his vision briefly as he takes a sip. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with sugar, and before he can stop it, he makes a face.

In front of him, Siete laughs. He slams the mask down back on his face and with vision regained, he notices that Siete’s been walking backwards, watching him drink.

“What’re you looking at,” he says, a bit bitterly, like the hot chocolate was some sort of test, just another easy way to make fun of him.

“I’d say the cute face you made, but it’s all hidden behind the mask again.” Sighing dramatically, he turns around to face ahead again, and Six resists the urge to throw the hot drink all over the back of Siete’s pristine white cape.

When enough time has passed and the urge has died down, he tentatively lifts his mask to take a sip again.

* * *

Six doesn’t know how long they’ve been travelling, and he’s long since given up on asking what the point of the mission was. Siete’s secretiveness has reached new heights today, and while he makes small talk about whatever trivial matter happens to cross his mind, he shuts down every time Six tries to veer the conversation towards the purpose of being on this island.

More often than not, as time goes on, he finds himself responding to whatever Siete brings up, more to keep the man at bay than anything. He seems more than content enough with monosyllabic dismissals, the more frequent skeptical questioning, and the occasional restrained, but passionate response. It passes the time well enough.

Trekking up the mountain becomes a quieter affair, as the two of them become more concerned on maintaining their footing and not exerting unnecessary energy. Despite all odds, Six has had the patience to follow this mission through to the end, and they’re finally face to face with the location that Siete marked on the map he’d shown him, in a yesterday that felt like forever ago.

The cave sits in the side of the mountain, not at the highest point, but elevated enough that Six can look out at almost the entire island, maybe map the roundabout course they took to get here. Wind blows across the entrance of the cave, but the inside is miraculously snow free, and without further hesitation Siete stretches and sits on the floor of the cave.

“Here we are, then!”

Six doesn’t move from where he’s standing, still at the mouth of the cave. “Where’s ‘here’?”

“Edge of the skydom, or as close as we can safely get. You ever been?”

“No. Siete, what’s the point here?”

“You don’t see it?” On a normal day, Siete’s face would be comically exaggerated disbelief, stringing out the words as if he were trying to tease a child, as if it were something Six should know. But today, he looks like a normal human being—eyebrows raised with curiosity, but with no mock condescension.

Six wonders how it is that he knows Siete’s condescension has never once been serious in all the time he’s known him. “No.”

“Sit down,” Siete offers, patting the cold rock next to him.

“It would be faster to tell me.”

“Six, some things just can’t be expressed through words.”

Six is patient. Siete is stubborn. But it’s been a long journey, and while he’s not in pain, he’s at least somewhat mentally exhausted from having to deal with the other man all day. He humours the request; sitting down next to him, trying to put as much space as he can between them, he crosses his legs, sits with his back straight, scans the skyline with vigilance.

There’s nothing there that he hasn’t already seen. It’s the same white expanse they’ve been travelling for much longer than Six wishes they had been, but the sun is lowering, beginning to paint streaks of orange against the blue shadows. “The sun is setting.”

“Sure is.”

“I don’t suppose you have a plan for getting back in complete darkness, do you? Is this what you’re showing me? The futility of following your instructions? What, pray tell, was the purpose of this mission?”

“Geez, wish you’d stop and smell the roses sometime. You’ve been working hard lately, just thought I’d show you the fruit of your labours.”

“You have never once dispatched any of us to Silverwind. We have no business here.”

“True. But it’s more like a metaphor. It’s alright to want peace and quiet, sometimes.”

“You have an awful judge of character,” Six grumbles, “to pick someone that is almost predisposed to resist you at every turn.”

“Maybe so. But regardless of what you think, you’re good company. And Silverwind’s a quiet island. Wouldn’t be so fun to have peace and quiet _all_ the time.”

Siete is talking in circles, and after a full day of listening to him talk like this, Six’s tolerance is low. “What are you trying to tell me here?”

“Whatever you want to hear, my good man. It’s more of a personal mission here today than one for the Eternals, really.” At the offended aura emanating from beneath Six’s mask, Siete laughs. “You never asked, I never specified. You’re not here on official Eternal business, you know.”

“I did not know that.” Even so, there’s no use fighting it now; they’ve already made the trek across the island, and although it’s not the largest in Phantagrande, Six isn’t willing to make the walk back alone. As much as he hates to admit it, Siete has a point.

He especially hates to admit that Siete has a point about the company. In order for Six to use his power to protect people, there has to be people he cares enough about. He still keeps in touch with the Grandcypher crew, ties he knows he can never break, but between that crew and the concerning pattern of possessions by weapons among the Eternals, Six has gotten begrudgingly used to company, the concept of caring about others even with the risk of being hurt.

He likes to think that Siete isn’t one of the people he’s gotten used to—the man occasionally puts up fronts of being infuriatingly obtuse, seemingly existing to deter Six from doing his job at every turn, trying to invite him out to frivolous activities. But beneath it all, where Uno has given him guidance, Song has given him the understanding of a cohort—Siete’s given him something he can’t put a name to.

 _Companionship_ would be a disservice to those who have walked beside him on his path, thick and thin. _Consideration_ is much the same. Siete is often a man who escapes the logic of anything, especially words, and so it seems almost appropriate that the word _normalcy_ falls into Six’s lap. It’s not the right word—there’s something else, just outside his grasp—but it’s unexpected enough that he stops to consider it.

There’s nothing normal about him, or Siete, or any of the Eternals. They’re markedly abnormal, in power and skill and some even in temperament. But among the Eternals, Siete makes it clear that Six has a place, while avoiding the pitfall of isolating him, lifting him on a pedestal above all others.

Six thinks, with some amusement, that Siete bothers the rest of the Eternals equally as he does Six.

The sun is closer to the horizon now, the blank canvas of Silverwind Stretch a burst of colour. In the distance, where the moon has taken residence, Six sees small points like starlight in the snow, hidden villages with their own intertwined lives. He stays quiet in thought and only when the sun has almost completely disappeared does he realize that he’s played right into Siete’s hands.

He’s essentially taken a day off, even if Siete had to do the most roundabout, ridiculous way to do it. Six turns his head towards Siete, and his reprimands die in his mouth at the look on Siete’s face. It’s a rare one, pensive and free of any sort of exaggerated flightiness without dipping into the territory of battle-hardened. It’s calm, completely at ease, and Six knows that the island has had the same disarming effect on Siete’s thoughts.

Without turning, Siete smiles, as if he could tell the moment Six shifted to look at him. “Silverwind is so far north, it’s dark for only a few hours. So we’ll sit it out.”

“Then at least do me the favour of not wasting any more of my time and spar with me.” Six stands, working out a crick in his neck and getting into a fighting stance. It's habit, really, something else familiar; especially in the presence of someone as polarizing as Siete, he can only take sitting and contemplating for so long. There's something humming in his veins wanting to pounce, but he keeps deadly still, waiting for a response.

Siete takes a second, watches the sun fully dive under the surface of the horizon. Six watches it reflect in his eyes. “My pleasure.”

And with that, he stands, unsheathes his sword, and charges.

 

 


End file.
